


I Used To Bring You Sunshine

by sakesushimaki



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, Romance, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-03
Updated: 2011-07-03
Packaged: 2017-10-21 00:03:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/218587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakesushimaki/pseuds/sakesushimaki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Justin realizes that life isn’t so great in NY, thanks to Queen. (Title etc borrowed from Queen's <i>Too Much Love Will Kill You</i>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Used To Bring You Sunshine

It’s December 7th when you realize that you don’t know anymore why you’re here.

You’re sitting in a crowded but cozy bar, half-listening to your friends chatting about some concert you couldn’t afford to go to, but mostly only hearing the girl on the tiny karaoke stage delivering a badly timed _Too Much Love Will Kill You_.

When you get home that night, you check your email. You know without looking that it’s been five months and four days since the last one. You know without thinking that it’s been eight months since the last visit, one year and nine months since you came here.

You don’t want it to turn two years.

You download the Queen song from before and put it on repeat. Your shitty speakers creak with the effort while you allow yourself to fall apart.

It is long overdue.

Too much love will kill you, it’ll make your life a lie.

 

::

 

You finalize your decision at four in the morning.

For the first time in months you sleep well and wake up with a sense of purpose.

You wonder how it ever took you so long to see clearly.

 

::

 

As it turns out, leaving everything behind — quitting your job, cancelling your lease, packing up your shabby apartment, saying goodbye to the handful of friends you made, and letting the one gallery that remotely expressed possible future interest in your work know — isn’t hard once you have a plan and goal.

Because too much love will kill you, if you can’t make up your mind.

 

::

 

It’s mom who picks you up. It’s her place you’re going to stay at until you’ve figured everything out and it’s her who’s been receiving boxes throughout the week.

Her hugs feel even better than you remember.

You’ve come home a failure, and everyone will know it. You were a failure in the city, too, but you didn’t give yourself time to accept it. Coming back is like admitting to it, once and for all.

Somehow, it’ll be okay, though. You figure you can be a failure while not working your ass off in a shitty job that lets you barely make the rent. You can be a failure while having some actual time to paint. You can be a failure while being with him.

You hope that the _only time_ ticket is still valid.

 

::

 

For two days you’ve been working up the courage, binging on mom’s salmon casserole and Molly’s school gossip. Now it’s time to show.

It’s the lunch rush at the diner, but after almost — but not quite — two years in an 8.4 million city, it’s really nothing at all.

You know that he’ll be here, despite the crowd, despite the watery coffee. It’s Thursday and although he tries to diffuse that truth, he’s a creature of habit.

He doesn’t see you when you sit down across from him, his face hidden by the paper. You smell his cologne, the traces of ink on his fingers. He still hasn’t noticed you, probably too absorbed in the foreign affairs, and you can’t wait a second longer — you need to remove the final barrier. You snatch it out of his hands and fold it on your side of the table.

When you look up, you feel your pulse throbbing in your head. His hair looks different, his lips have a slightly lighter hue. He’s beautiful.

You wish you’d gotten a haircut before coming here.

For a moment you forget what you’re going to say. The sequence of expressions on his face astonishes you.

“I’m back,” you say, finally, while the diner buzzes around you.

His eyes are burning into your skull, a look of concentration on his face now.

“I’m back in Pittsburgh. I’m staying at my mom’s for the time being. I… I failed, Brian. I’ve achieved close to nothing and I didn’t see the sense of staying there. I don’t—…” You stop and take a deep breath. You promised yourself no rambling. “I love you. I want to be with you. It’s what I’ve always wanted.”

He looks away then, down, and something cold slices through your chest.

“Brian.” You reach out under the table, laying a palm on his suited knee. “Brian,” you say again and dig your fingers into him. You can almost feel his skin. “I’m asking you to think about it. I want us to be together. I came back because I realized… Well, I’m back, either way. But I’d be a hell of a lot happier with you.”

You uncurl your fingers, letting the fabric slip. “Please think about it. Take some time and let me know when you’ve made a decision. You shouldn’t make it lightly.”

You stand up and leave before you have a chance to plea or embarrass yourself otherwise.

It’s cold outside and the air stings in your eyes. You don’t know what the fuck you expected, but disappointment settles over you now. Maybe it’s your new aura.

You’re waiting for the pedestrian light to switch and it fucking takes forever. Someone behind you is standing too close.

“I don’t need to think about it.”

The light switches and people left and right start to walk. “Brian, y-you should…”

He grabs a corner of your collar and drags you back from the curb. “I don’t need to think about it,” he repeats, staring you down.

“I…” You reach for the building wall. “God, are you sure?”

But he cuts you off, with his fingers in your hair, his other hand around your waist, and his lips pushing against yours. You grabble at his coat, slide your hands inside, just as your tongues find each other.

You kiss until his lips have the color you remember.

 

::

 

His mouth is still pressed to your shoulder, even as he sleeps.

You drag the duvet a bit higher up over your naked bodies, press back against his warm chest, and reach for the hand slung loosely over your hip. You mold your palm against his and study his skin against yours.

You’re still fighting sleep, still pressing your palm into his, when he suddenly slips his fingers between yours.

It’s then that something inside you snaps — you feel like you’re going to burst from the discharge. You’ve done fine until now, but there’s only so much you can take.

But you fucking deserve this. You can let go. You can be a failure while being a happy fucking mess.

You press further back against him, grip his hand tightly, and hope you don’t wake him with your pathetic, shuddering breaths.

Too much love will kill you. Every time.


End file.
